


The Walls Lean In to Listen

by OpenEndedDoor



Category: America's Suitehearts - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medical, America's Suitehearts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Halloween, M/M, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenEndedDoor/pseuds/OpenEndedDoor
Summary: Patrick is a year into his surgical residency, and he doesn't know which is worse: the pretty anesthesiologist he can't get out of his head or the vivid hallucination that won't leave him alone.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 81
Kudos: 69





	1. Head Like a Steel Trap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> Happy October! This was originally going to be my entry for Trick or Pete, but I gave up on it and wrote something light and fluffy instead. [Snitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers) convinced me to resuscitate it, so here we are. Endless thanks to Snitches for beta reading and for putting up with my anxieties about posting this.
> 
> I'll post the fluffy fic for Halloween, and in the meantime I'm going to try to release this in chapters throughout October and November. 
> 
> I wanted to try something kind of dark with angst, and this weird medical AU + America's Suitehearts hybrid is the result.
> 
> I know nothing about medicine, so apologies in advance for anything I'm sure to get completely wrong. I'm also trying to approach the topics of addiction and its related experiences with as much sensitivity as possible. If you have any questions or concerns, please reach out and let me know.
> 
>  **Content warnings:** drug addiction, mild surgical procedures, and discussion of mental illness

Patrick is standing at the operating table. He can feel a bead of sweat begin its slow creep from his temple down the side of his face as he carefully pushes a scalpel into the patient’s lower abdomen. She's a 27-year-old woman with a 3-year-old kid who's sitting in the waiting room with his grandmother, but Patrick tries not to think about that while he's operating on her. He's focusing on each step he has to take to get to the part where he's stitching her back up and everything is intact, and when the anesthesia wears off she'll open her eyes and see her kid again. Right now, he's thinking about cutting a precise line into her abdomen, but something gold flickers in his peripherals, and he does the thing you’re not supposed to do when you’re in the middle of cutting into someone — he looks up. 

There’s a man standing next to the double doors leading out of the room. The operating room is a sterile and sacred place, used only by the handful of medical professionals who are required for the surgery, and no one else should be entering or exiting during the procedure. This guy definitely was not originally in the room. He looks like he just came from a Halloween party where the theme was creepy children’s book characters. Patrick only glimpses him for a few seconds, but these are the images that get burned onto his retinas: an elaborate black-and-gold costume, jet black hair sticking up at an odd angle, and a skeletal painted-on smile, as wide as the gaping pit of foreboding that Patrick suddenly feels in his stomach.

His hand nearly slips, and he tenses.

“Is everything okay?” Joe asks, settling into the look of concern that Patrick has come to associate with him. He’s always looking at him like that. “Do you need to take a breather?”

Dr. Joseph Trohman is something of a prodigy. He pushed right through college, medical school, and residency, and he’s already an attending doctor at 30. Patrick started medical school a little late, after fooling around with music for a bit. He’s the same age as Joe, but there’s no question who the better doctor is. Their roles as resident and attending surgeon fit them, and Patrick honestly isn’t sure what he’ll do when he’s on his own without Joe breathing down his neck. He likes knowing that he has a safety net in case he falters. Sometimes he feels like he’s on the brink of it.

“No, I’ve got this,” Patrick says, but he takes Joe's advice in spirit and breathes deeply before allowing himself a quick glance at the double doors again. The strange man is gone.

Patrick knows it’s a hallucination. He did undergo four years of medical school — I mean, give him some credit — but he doesn't want to think about why he's hallucinating. He doesn't want to self-diagnose. That's an area of his life that he carefully avoids. His job is to focus on other people, to dig into them and find out what makes them tick so he can make them better, and so he doesn't have to do it to himself.

What Patrick doesn’t know is why he dreamed up a storybook villain in a cut-rate Halloween costume. It’s been a while since he’s watched any Tim Burton films. Then he remembers it's the beginning of October ( _Where has the fucking time gone?_ he thinks). He probably saw a Halloween decoration in a store somewhere, and his subconscious has chosen the worst possible time to pluck it out of the dark recesses of his brain and drop it into the operating room with him, because that’s just what he needs.

He tries to clear his mind and focus on the next step.

* * *

Patrick is standing in the lounge, surgery a success, thanks in no small part to Joe's diligent guidance. He needs to change into clean scrubs, but he’s holding a bottle of prescription pills in one hand, and he's rehearsing the same routine he does with himself every time he pulls out the bottle. It has his name on it. The pills inside are his, every single one of them, and it's easy to take just a little more than the recommended dosage every now and then. The dosage is exactly that — a recommendation, based on an educated guess. He works more than the recommended dosage calls for, shifts on top of shifts, and people’s lives depend on him. A high-stress job requires a high-functioning human being, and he functions because of a little pill. Without it, that’s five years of his life wasted — scholarships and tuition and his family’s expectations down the drain.

He's trying not to think about the fact that visual hallucinations can be a symptom of overuse of amphetamines. He doesn’t want to go there — yet. Visual hallucinations can also be a result of fatigue ( _rarely_ , his brain tries to tell him, and he tells his brain to shut up), and everyone has coping mechanisms. He just needs to get some sleep, probably.

Patrick likes his job, don’t get him wrong. He has no illusions about its importance or the need to be present and caring, and his nerves weren’t always this wrecked. He made a conscious decision to do this. He knew what he was getting himself into with four years of medical school and who-knows-how-many years of surgical residency. He knew he was setting himself up for a life of unusual sleep schedules and caffeine-soaked shifts. The cost of heroism and a six-figure salary is no less than your physical, emotional, and social well-being.

Still, Patrick has memories tucked in the back of his brain, and every now and then, when he’s feeling particularly masochistic, he’ll dig them out and turn them over in his head like worry stones.

He remembers being 15 and going to his favorite local record store, thumbing through genres (soul, punk, classical) and sub-genres (Memphis soul, post-hardcore, baroque), and coming home with Elvis Costello and Prince and Hot Water Music. 

He remembers getting his first guitar as a birthday present from his dad and spending hours learning how to play, until his fingers bled and his ears rang and he was thinking in scales and chord progressions.

He remembers being in a band in his early 20s, playing shows at Old Town and feeling like nothing could touch him while he was onstage, his synapses firing on all cylinders, body flooded with alcohol and serotonin.

He remembers sharing a cramped two-bedroom apartment with a roommate and a bevy of freeloaders, tossing them Gatorades from the fridge as a quick-fix hangover cure in the morning and then coming back together at night to sit around and play music and laugh and drink and do it all over again.

For years, when anyone asked him what he wanted to do for a living, Patrick’s immediate response was, “Music. Anything to do with music. I can’t not think about it or talk about it.” But his dad was a failed musician, and all music had given _him_ was divorce and debt. His mom didn’t want to see her son turn into his father, and Patrick was afraid of the sadness he saw in his dad’s eyes when he played one his old records, afraid of the wetness that sometimes gathered there when the needle hit the vinyl and that familiar pop and crackle came through the speakers. 

So, at some point, Patrick put down his guitar and stopped going to shows and threw himself into school. His life followed a completely different trajectory after that. His days and nights became a blur of classes and labs and papers and pills and all-nighters spent studying instead of playing music, and medical school went by much quicker than he expected.

All of that led him here, standing in a room at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in front of — he checks the chart in his hands — “Andy Hurley,” he says. Another look at the chart tells Patrick he’s a Cubs catcher who sustained a season-ending hip injury. Patrick will apparently be going in to repair a microfracture and a torn labrum. “Damn,” he says out loud. “Ouch, man.”

“They teach you bedside manner at your fancy doctor school?” Andy asks, in a soft, lilting voice that doesn’t match his outward appearance at all. He has cropped red hair and an angular face, and he’s short but built. Patrick guesses being a catcher doesn’t really require height. Catchers spend most of their time crouching, right? He should really try to watch more sports.

“I’m commiserating,” Patrick says. “That qualifies as bedside manner, right?”

Andy shrugs. “Are you the one doing my surgery?”

“I’ll be taking care of you alongside my attending surgeon, Dr. Trohman.”

“Attending surgeon?” Andy raises his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

“I’m a resident,” says Patrick, “which means I’m technically still in training, but that also means I’ll be paying extra close attention to your care, and Dr. Trohman will be right there with me the entire time. Think of it this way — you’ll have two doctors looking out for you, so you get double the care.”

“Okay,” says Andy. “That’s...reassuring, I guess. You’re doing better at the bedside manner, I’ll give you that.”

“I appreciate it,” Patrick grins.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How much is this gonna, you know, affect my career?”

 _Wow_ , Patrick thinks, _going straight in with the big questions._ “You’re going to feel a lot better after this surgery, once the recovery process is over.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Patrick regards Andy. He’s tough, but his questions belie a fragileness, and looking at him sitting on the bed in his hospital gown, Patrick feels his chest clench. He doesn’t want to hurt this guy, but he doesn’t want to bullshit him either.

“Surgeries affect people differently,” he says. “You’re a fit dude, but with this type of injury, you might feel some discomfort running and moving around for a while after recovery. There are risks that come with any surgery, but we need to get you fixed up, because the situation you’re in right now is pretty bad, and it’s only going to get worse the longer you wait. We’ll be sure to monitor your recovery afterward and get you into physical therapy.”

Andy nods and looks down at his hands. Patrick thinks, for the thousandth time in his short career as a resident, that medical schools spend a lot of time on the doctor-to-patient part of the job but not nearly enough on the human-to-human part.

“Alright, let’s get your blood tests done, and then we’ll talk about where we’ll go from there.”

* * *

Pete Wentz is standing in the lounge, and Patrick really doesn’t have time for this. He’s coming off of a 24-hour shift, and he just wants to grab his stuff and go home and get the five hours of sleep that he’s due before he has to come back here and do it all over again.

“Hey, Dr. Stump” says Pete, way too brightly, and Patrick knows it was too much to hope that the universe would let him off the hook this time, but he’s still pissed at the universe for disappointing him yet again. “I would say you’re looking rough, but I think that’s the default for you.”

“Can you go be somewhere else?” Patrick makes a shooing motion. “Don’t you have patients to put under?”

“I’m hurt,” says Pete, and he clutches his chest with a dramatic flourish. “I’m gonna need heart surgery stat, doc. I’m pretty sure mine just shattered into a million pieces.”

"Not my specialty. Go find a cardiologist," says Patrick. He’s getting tired of this routine. He opens his locker, focusing on retrieving his stuff so he can get as far away from Pete Wentz, the world’s most annoying anesthesiologist, as humanly possible.

“I hear you’re gonna be working on Andy Hurley’s hip injury. Tough break. I hope he bounces back from it. Five home runs on a hip fracture is not too shabby, though.”

“Can you not gossip about our patients, please?”

Pete holds both hands up in mock surrender, then smiles wide and leans back against the lockers, and Patrick gets a sudden rush of deja vu. _It’s the uppers_ , his brain says, and he tells his brain to shut up.

Pete runs a hand through his bleached hair and looks like he’s going to say something else, but Patrick doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He’s gathered all of his things, so he slams his locker door and rushes out of the room without bothering to say goodbye.

Patrick has a perfectly good reason for not wanting to be around Pete Wentz, alright? Almost a year ago, when Patrick was still fresh-faced and clear-eyed, only a couple months into his residency, they both had a bit too much to drink at the hospital Christmas party. They had been dancing around the fringes of flirting with each other for a while, so Patrick wasn’t that surprised when the night ended with Pete riding his dick on his couch.

He _was_ surprised when he woke up the next morning and Pete was gone, and the next few weeks turned into a different kind of dance. Patrick tried to talk to Pete about what happened, and Pete actively avoided both the conversation and Patrick himself as much as he could despite their working relationship. Every time Patrick approached him, Pete either walked away or immediately started talking in technical terms about the procedures they were due to perform in tandem.

Patrick finally got fed up and decided to take the hint, but he couldn’t deny the hurt that rose in his chest for months every time he had to look at Pete. He felt like he was owed an explanation at the very least. Was the sex that bad? Was he that much of a turn-off? He wasn’t so drunk that he can’t remember the night, and he doesn’t recall doing anything terribly awful or revolting.

Over the past couple of months, Pete has switched tack, and now he teases Patrick at every opportunity he can get, which is even more infuriating. Patrick desperately wishes he would go back to his previous avoidance strategy. His head is already a mess, and he doesn’t know how much more of Pete’s mind games he can take on top of the volatile cocktail that fear of failure, exhaustion, and uppers have formed in his body.

Patrick sighs and pulls his jean jacket around him as he walks to his car, trying to shield himself from the autumn chill. He’s so fucking tired of thinking about Pete Wentz.

* * *

It’s dark outside, but it will be morning in just a couple of hours. Patrick is placing his keys on his kitchen counter and thinking about how good it will feel to lie down in his bed when he sees something move out of the corner of his eye — a flash of gold in the doorway. He walks out of the kitchen into the living room. It’s dark and quiet, no sign of anyone or anything, so he moves to his bedroom. He’s changed into boxers and a T-shirt and is pulling back the covers, practically drooling at the sight of his bed, when a flash of gold catches his eye again.

He turns his head, and this time, the Halloween-costumed man he glimpsed in the operating room is there in his bedroom with him. Patrick's heart beats a frantic rhythm against his chest and his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, but then he remembers that he’s not real. _He can’t be real. Breathe. Just breathe._

The strange man is leaning against the wall in the corner, arms crossed, eyes sparkling, looking at Patrick. At least, he thinks he's looking at him. It's dark in that corner of the room, the faint glow from the bedside lamp not quite reaching that far, so it's hard to tell.

Later, Patrick will ask himself why his immediate instinct was to engage the figment of his imagination in conversation. Right now, however, it seems like a perfectly natural thing to do, so he asks, “How long have you been standing there?”

Figment Dude shrugs. 

“Did you watch me get undressed?” Patrick squeaks.

“Did you want me to watch you?” Figment Dude grins, and it’s unsettling, but at least he doesn’t have, like, rows of sharp teeth or insects flying out of his mouth or something, which Patrick only now realizes he was expecting. His voice is low and soft, and there's something about the cadence of it that lights a beacon in Patrick's mind, but he can't figure out what it is.

Patrick ignores the question. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re going to sleep,” Figment Dude says, gesturing to Patrick’s bed.

“I _was_ going to sleep, yes,” says Patrick. “Might be kind of hard now that you’re here.” 

When Figment Dude doesn’t say anything in response, just keeps staring at him, Patrick says, “Um, are you just gonna stand there and watch me sleep?”

“I want to give you sweet dreams.” Figment Dude steps forward, and Patrick tenses. He doesn’t know what he's capable of, doesn’t understand what’s happening. Would he hurt him? _Can_ he hurt him?

“What do sweet dreams, um, entail, exactly?” Patrick asks, his voice faltering a bit.

“Let me show you.” Figment Dude takes another step forward. The light from Patrick’s bedside lamp illuminates him with a soft glow, so Patrick can just barely make out his features, and two thoughts snake their way into Patrick’s brain uninvited. The first thought is that he really is strangely beautiful, and the second is that he looks vaguely familiar.

“Who are you?” Patrick asks. “ _What_ are you?”

He tilts his head to the side. “What do you think I am?”

“I think you’re...a hallucination, probably fatigue-induced or...”

Figment Dude grins, his painted-on smile stretching wide and almost menacing in the dark. “Or what? You a little bit _too_ on the up-and-up, Dr. Benzedrine?”

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick snaps. “I’m not playing games with you right now. I just got out of a 24-hour shift, part of which was a five-hour emergency surgery on a fucking teenager. I want a name, at least. Who the hell are you?”

“Whoa, whoa, doc. A little touchy, are we?” He holds his hands up, and the gesture is familiar too. Patrick feels like he's on the edge of a cliff, about to plunge into something unknown. “They call me Mr. Sandman.”

Patrick looks at him incredulously. “Like ‘bring me a dream’? The Chordettes song?”

Sandman shrugs again. “You can call me whatever you want, but I _can_ bring you dreams, doc.” 

He takes another few steps forward, the light illuminating him fully. Patrick just has time to notice his smooth copper skin, the lovely slope of his nose, and the red in the center of his eyes, surrounding his pupils, reflecting the heat in the pit of Patrick’s stomach, when it hits him like a ton of bricks — Sandman looks just like Pete Wentz.


	2. Detox Just to Retox

“Oh, fuck no,” Patrick says. “No, no, no.” He tries to back away, but his legs hit his bedside table, causing his lamp to wobble and flicker.

Sandman raises an eyebrow. “What’s the matter?” He grins and flops down on Patrick’s bed like he owns the place. _The fucking nerve_.

Patrick closes his eyes and runs his hands over his face, thinking that maybe when he opens them, this Bizarro World version of Pete will be gone and things can go back to...whatever they were before.

He gives it a minute, focusing on breathing deeply, counting as he inhales and exhales, and then he opens his eyes. Sandman is still sitting in the middle of his bed, propped up against his headboard, reclining with his legs splayed out on the mattress.

Patrick groans. “Okay, I’ve imagined you, right?” He begins pacing next to his bed. “So all I have to do is un-imagine you, and you’ll go away.”

Sandman blinks at him.

Patrick continues pacing as he tries to think of anything except the unwelcome visitor on his bed. He recites each part of the facial nerve in his head. He plays the entirety of Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes” in his mind, eyes closed and head bobbing. He thinks about smooth, copper skin, inked with thorns. His eyes fly open.

Sandman is still sitting there, watching him curiously. “Whatcha thinking about?” he asks.

Patrick’s eyes dart to the wall. “Anything but you.”

Sandman scoots over to the far side of the bed and pats the empty space beside him. “Why don’t you come lie down? You look like you could use a good night’s sleep.”

Patrick scoffs. “Right, yeah. Like I’m going to get a good night’s sleep while you’re here. Can’t you just go away? Please?”

Sandman moves to the edge of the bed and sits up on his knees. He grabs Patrick by the waist and pulls him close. Their faces are inches apart, and Patrick’s heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest. Sandman is _touching him_. He didn’t even know that was possible. He’s struck by how real Sandman seems and how _much_ he resembles Pete. Images flicker through his mind uninvited — Pete’s warm golden eyes looking up at him, Pete’s mouth wrapped around his cock, his own thumbs pressing against the points of Pete’s nipples, Pete’s eyes crinkling as he smiles. 

Sandman lifts his hand to cup the side of Patrick’s face and strokes his thumb over his cheekbone. “Come with me,” he says, and for a second, Patrick almost gives in. This is just a fantasy. How much harm can it be? But he can _smell_ Sandman — an odd mixture of licorice and cloves — and this whole thing is just too much for him, too weird for him, a confusing sensory overload that _shouldn’t be happening_.

Patrick pulls out of Sandman's grip and steps away. “I don’t know how to get rid of you yet,” he says, “but I’m not encouraging you. Just stay out of my way, don’t touch me again, and get out of my fucking bed.”

They look at each other for a beat, Patrick’s heart still hammering, until Sandman finally slowly stands up and walks out of Patrick’s bedroom.

* * *

When Patrick wakes up the next morning, Sandman is sitting on the couch in his living room, his feet propped up on the coffee table, watching a cooking show on TV. Without looking at Patrick, he says, “That is _way_ too much butter.” 

Sandman doesn’t touch Patrick again, and he stays relatively out of the way, but he doesn’t leave. The next few days, Patrick finds Sandman chilling on his couch at night watching horror movies (apparently _Suspiria_ ’s art direction is unparalleled) and making a mess in his kitchen in the morning cooking breakfast (which Patrick refuses to eat — you’re never supposed to eat the food in fairyland, right?).

He shows up at the hospital while Patrick is working, too, although he thankfully seems to understand now that the operating room is not the best place to pop in and say hey. Instead, he stands in line with Patrick at the Starbucks kiosk, making comments about how tired Patrick looks in comparison to everyone else and crooning about how much he loves the aroma of coffee. When Patrick pulls out his pill bottle in the lounge, Sandman watches him, grinning.

And when Patrick is with Pete in a recovery room monitoring a sleeping patient’s vitals, Sandman is there. He stays close to Pete, circling him, standing next to him, looking at him intently. Pete appears to have no idea, but it’s unnerving, watching the two of them together. Sandman looks a little younger than Pete, softer around the edges with fewer lines on his face. Seeing them next to each other for the first time, it occurs to Patrick how weary Pete looks. Maybe this job takes something out of him, too, or maybe it’s just life. He wants to know. He wants to pull it out of Pete, slowly, tenderly, with Pete’s legs tangled in his on the couch as they watch movies together, or over breakfast in the mornings. He wants to know what makes Pete tick, why he guards himself and why he runs away.

“How did the consultation with Hurley go?” Pete asks, snapping Patrick out of his thoughts.

“Everything went well,” says Patrick. He can do this — civil conversation, discussing their patients, not thinking about having breakfast together or the way Pete’s sweat pooled in the dip between his collarbones. “His blood tests came back, and he’s good to go.”

“Surgery’s tomorrow?”

Patrick nods.

Pete lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. Patrick wonders if there’s tension there. He wants to massage it loose. “You know I’m asking about him because I genuinely care, right? The guy’s probably the best catcher in the league right now, and he seems like a good dude. I know you think I don’t care about anything —”

“Why would I think that, Pete?” Patrick interrupts. “What could _possibly_ give you reason to believe that I don’t think you care about people?”

“We’re both in this line of work because we care about people, Patrick.”

“Mm, we care about _people_. We don’t care about each other, though, do we?” Patrick’s eyes move over Pete’s shoulder to Sandman. He’s not watching Pete anymore. He’s staring at Patrick, and he looks hurt — terrified, even, his eyes wide and glistening. Something in Patrick softens, and he takes a step forward and reaches out to Sandman, as if to touch him, console him, tell him he doesn’t mean _him_ , he _does_ care about him and he thinks maybe he even needs him.

“Patrick?” says Pete, and Patrick looks at him, blinking.

“Are you okay?” Pete looks concerned. “Where did you go just now?”

Patrick frowns and shakes his head. “Nowhere. It’s nothing. I haven’t been getting much sleep.”

“Yeah, about that,” says Pete. “People around here have noticed that you’re looking a little run ragged.” 

“Are ‘people’ named Pete? Because no one else has said anything to me.”

“That’s because ‘people’ won’t say anything to you about it, but Pete apparently will. I know you’ve seen the way Trohman looks at you like you’re a piece of fine china that he’s afraid to break. And have you wondered why Hayley has been steering clear of you for the past couple of months?”

“Jesus Christ,” says Patrick. He knew he probably wasn’t holding it together that well, but he didn’t realize people were actively avoiding him.

“Yeah,” says Pete. “Look, some people from our department are having a Halloween party next week. Should be a pretty low-key thing. Why don’t you come? I think it would do you some good just to relax and let off some steam.”

“A party,” Patrick says flatly.

“Yeah,” says Pete, looking away. “A party.”

“I’ll think about it.” Patrick looks at Sandman again, and he’s smiling.

* * *

“Hey, Vicky, I need a refill,” says Patrick as casually as he can muster.

Vicky looks at him from over the hospital’s pharmacy counter, her expression hard and unreadable. “It’s good to see you again, Patrick,” she says, “and _so soon_ , too.”

“It’s always good to see you, Vicky. You look lovely, as usual. Is that a new lab coat?”

“Come here,” she says sternly.

“Uh, what?”

She walks to the door separating the behind-the-counter drugs from the outside world and opens it. “Come back here.”

“Into pharmacist territory?”

She swings the door wide and beckons Patrick impatiently. He follows her behind the door, and she leads him through rows of medicine to a door in the back of the pharmacy.

“Am I allowed back here?” Patrick asks.

Vicky shuts the door behind them. They’re standing in a utility closet.

“You’re technically a doctor, so yes, you’re allowed back here,” says Vicky, “but that’s not the reason I’m worried about getting my ass handed to me and my pharmacist license shredded.”

“Oh,” says Patrick. He squirms. He’s known Vicky for a long time, but she can still be intimidating, and she has strategically placed herself between Patrick and the door, his only means of escape. Maybe he can get away with using claustrophobia as an excuse.

“I’ve looked the other way for a long time, because we’re friends and you helped me get this job, but I’ve adjusted the quantity of your prescription twice, and that’s way more than anyone with ADHD needs. How are you already out of your last refill?”

“I, um, took it all. Isn’t that how people usually run out? I know you’re still kinda new at this, but c’mon, Vicky.”

“Patrick…” Vicky doesn’t look amused. Instead, she looks genuinely concerned, and Patrick feels a pang in his chest. He doesn’t like putting her in this position — he _really_ doesn’t — but he also doesn’t like putting himself in the middle of an operating room without amphetamines. It’s just bad for everyone involved.

“Look, I know, okay? I know I’m taking more than I probably should, but the regular dosage doesn’t help. I’m having trouble concentrating, and I’m working crazy shifts right now. I can't afford to fuck up because I'm tired and unfocused.”

“Patrick, I know it’s not an uncommon thing to take Adderall to get you through an all-nighter. I’m not living under a rock. But you know what this stuff can do to you if you’re not careful with it, right?”

“I know, I know,” Patrick whines. "Let’s be real, though, Vic. What are the odds I’m gonna have a psychotic break? Like, I’m suddenly gonna start seeing spooky scary skeletons everywhere?” He chuckles, and he hopes it's convincing.

Vicky sighs and crosses her arms. “I’ll refill it for you, but the next time you actually go to your psychiatrist and they renew your prescription, I’m following their recommendation to the letter. I’m not going to be your enabler.”

“ _Thank you_ , Vicky. This will get me through another 24-hour shift. I owe you, really, I do. I’ll buy you lunch. Just let me know when.”

“Why don’t you just take care of yourself, Patrick? That’s more than enough for me.”

As he walks out of the pharmacy, a fresh bottle of pills rattling in his jacket pocket, he hears the shuffle of feet as Sandman falls into step beside him. He’s humming “Spooky Scary Skeletons.”

* * *

“Why do you think,” Sandman begins, stretching out on Patrick’s couch, “I look just like that _strikingly_ pretty anesthesiologist?”

“I don’t know, probably because you’re as annoying as he is.”

“What’s in that head of yours?” Sandman jumps up off the couch and strides over to Patrick. He taps on Patrick’s forehead.

“Fuck off,” says Patrick, ducking away.

“What do you want from him?” asks Sandman. “Do you want to fuck him?”

Patrick decides not to dignify that with a response.

“Is that why I’m here?" Sandman laughs, loud and obnoxious, and it sounds just like Pete. Patrick has heard that laugh countless times over the last year. It somehow makes him wince and melt at the same time. "Am I your wish fulfillment?”

“I have no idea why you’re here. I’ve been asking myself that since you showed up.”

“I can be your wish fulfillment, you know. I can —”

“Bring me sweet dreams? Yeah, I know.” Patrick sighs. “You keep saying that, but you understand why I’m hesitant to let you, right? I lied to my pharmacist, who also happens to be one of the only actual friends I have right now, because apparently my co-workers are fucking avoiding me.”

“I can take you away from all that.” Sandman moves close, and Patrick is thinking _not this again_ , but he really is beautiful underneath all of the eerie ostentation, and over the past few days, Patrick’s fear of Sandman has been replaced with something else — curiosity, maybe. He feels drawn to him, like he needs him somehow, like maybe Sandman _can_ take everything away.

He suddenly wants to touch Sandman. He doesn’t even know if he can, or if he’ll just be grasping at air. Sandman has touched him, but does it work the other way around? Maybe he'll disappear the second the tips of Patrick’s fingers brush him. There’s a thought — maybe that’s how he can finally get rid of him. Does he still want to, though? He feels like his head is a constant mess of disconnected thoughts and images. Nothing makes sense, and he doesn’t want to think anymore, so he just reaches out his hand.

And Sandman must have taken the gesture as an invitation because, in a blink, Sandman has stepped forward and his lips are on Patrick’s. Patrick isn’t thinking about what he’s doing with his body, he’s just letting it respond, and he slides his arms around Sandman’s waist and grasps him. And Sandman doesn’t disappear. No, he is very, _very_ present and solid and warm. Sandman opens his mouth slightly, and Patrick slides his tongue in, and he’s lost in the feeling of it, this strange out-of-body experience that somehow feels so right _._ It feels so _real._

Then he snaps back to reality. No, no, no. It can’t be real. This can’t be happening. People — normal people — don’t conjure up imaginary friends who resemble their hot co-workers so that they can make out with them. Normal people go out to bars or go on dates with friends of friends. How could he be this desperate, that he’s standing in his apartment letting his imagination overtake him like this? He pulls away.

Sandman looks frustrated. He’s looking Patrick in the eyes, and the intensity is almost too much. “What are you afraid of?” he asks, a rough tinge to his voice.

 _“What am I afraid of?”_ Patrick is very done with whatever this is. “Are you seriously asking me that? I’m afraid I’m losing my mind! I’m afraid that if I keep entertaining these little visions of you, I’m going to lose it completely. I can’t do this! This isn’t something that people do!”

“People don't have elaborate fantasies? They don’t dream? They don’t come up with imaginary people or scenarios to help them get through the hard shit life throws at them? Are you sure about that, doc?”

“Writers do that. Novelists, scriptwriters, playwrights. They come up with characters like you, and they dress them in shiny costumes like yours, and then they get paid for it. People like me do not dream up imaginary friends to kiss them to sleep at night.”

“How do you know that? Can you see what’s in the heads of your co-workers before they fall asleep in their beds? Do you think Joe lulls himself to sleep at night by imagining appendectomies?”

Patrick makes a frustrated noise. “I know he definitely doesn’t imagine Federico Fellini knock-offs trying to get into his pants. There’s no fucking way.”

“People don’t use their imaginations just to get paid, doc. Sometimes they do it because it’s all they can do.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s all _some_ people can do, but not me. I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am, and I have one of the most important jobs in the fucking world.”

“I know,” says Sandman, sadness creeping into the corners of his eyes, and Patrick isn’t sure if he can handle this fucked up rollercoaster of emotions that Sandman has strapped him into. 

“You’re so important,” Sandman says. “You are.” He steps closer to Patrick again, reaching out for him, and gently, hesitantly, places his hands on Patrick’s hips. “You have a lot of responsibility for one person. Let me make it easier for you. Let me ease your mind.” He reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair from Patrick’s forehead.

Patrick moves a hand to Sandman’s mouth and presses his thumb to his bottom lip. He tries to smear the makeup there, but it stays put. He wonders why he can’t give himself this. Whether it’s real or in his head, why can’t he allow himself an escape? He almost gives in, but it doesn’t feel like relief. Somehow, it feels more like defeat. He pulls back again and shakes his head. “I can’t do this.”

Sandman looks genuinely crushed, but he doesn’t insist. He’s looking at Patrick with so much tenderness it almost hurts. “Get some sleep, doc,” he says. “You need it.” He walks into the darkness of the hallway, out of sight and out of mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's sticking with me through this weird little fic! We'll see more of Patrick's co-workers soon, I promise. I think I'm going to shoot for Sunday/Monday updates? We shall see.


	3. Come Together, Come Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's now a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Jijwmxfi6zPPAY9ofeVk5?si=STamlsxqSRy5R3Q1j-o-TA) for this fic. It's almost as weird as the fic itself!

“Alright,” says Joe, “I shouldn’t have to tell you guys that this is a high-profile surgery, but I’m telling you anyway because this is a high-fucking-profile surgery. Andy Hurley is a famous athlete, there are people all over the country waiting to hear how this goes, and our names are going to be plastered all over sports media.”

“ _Your_ name is going to be plastered all over sports media,” Hayley cuts in.

“Yeah, I don’t think they care about the two residents who offer moral support,” adds Patrick.

“They might care,” says Joe. “They tend to want all the details they can get when it’s a — 

“High-fucking-profile surgery,” finishes Hayley. “Yeah, we know.”

“Anyway,” says Joe, glaring at her. “What matters is that Andy knows that I’m being assisted by residents and has been assured by multiple people, including Dr. Stump, that it means extra eyes and extra care.”

Patrick appreciates that Joe calls him Dr. Stump. Residents don’t always get the honorific attached — some of the attending doctors don’t think they’re ready to be addressed as Doctor yet, don’t think they deserve it. Patrick isn’t sure he actually _does_ deserve it, but every time he hears it come out of Joe’s mouth, he wants to try to live up to it. They’re the same age, but Joe somehow makes him feel like he’s 12 years old again trying to impress his music teacher.

Joe is one of those people who seem like they slide through life. He has everything Patrick feels like _he_ should have by now — a family, a nice house, job security, comfortable normalcy. Joe is calm in the face of pressure, he has an understated intelligence, he’s attractive, and he’s a genuinely _nice guy_ . He always looks so _alert_ and _put together_. It’s maddening. Patrick wonders how some people hit the life lottery and manage it so well, while he’s barely holding it together.

“Alright, we’ll go in arthroscopically,” Joe says. He’s standing at the sink giving their surgical instruments another once-over. “You guys ready for this?”

“Aye aye, captain,” says Hayley. She glances at Patrick and gives him a brusque nod.

Hayley started her residency at the same time as Patrick, but she’s a few years younger, probably the age that Patrick would have been if he’d gotten his shit together sooner. They’re co-residents, and they hit it off right away. She spends most of her time with Dr. Saporta, but they work the same shifts, and they used to hang out in the lounge at the end of the day to regroup, talking about the things they’d seen and done, laughing about the mistakes they narrowly avoided and commiserating over the ones they made. He misses that sense of camaraderie, and he misses her laid-back personality, something he feels like he could use in his life now more than ever. It pains him to think that she doesn’t want to be around him anymore. That’s two working relationships he’s managed to destroy without even trying.

He follows Hayley to the middle of the OR, where they take their places flanking Joe. He hopes he can hold it together half as well as the two of them.

* * *

Patrick does hold it together. Surprisingly well, actually. Joe, on the other hand, does not. 

“This is not good,” says Joe. “This is really, really not good.” He’s pacing, and it’s a testament to how skilled he is at his job that Patrick can’t recall ever seeing him like this before.

Everything _was_ going fine. The surgery was supposed to be scopic and minimally invasive. Joe would have Andy patched up in no time, with two residents looking over his shoulder just in case — backup for a surgeon who needs no backup. Partway in, though, they discovered that Andy has developed avascular necrosis. Playing baseball for a season and a half on a fractured hip prevented blood from getting to his bone, causing it to deteriorate. It may require more surgery, will absolutely require more rehabilitation, and probably means Andy will never be the same as an athlete again. 

Joe looks shell-shocked. “I want this to be a teaching opportunity, but I’m at a loss here, guys. This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

“Okay, calm down, big guy," says Hayley. "It sucks, but we just need to proceed like normal with what we’re doing and then we can address that later, right?” asks Hayley. “We can close the surgery and come back to it?”

Joe sighs heavily. “Yeah. There’s nothing we can do right now. He’ll have to decide how he wants to deal with it.”

“We should have caught it, though,” Patrick chimes in. “I mean, before now.”

“It doesn’t look great that we didn’t,” says Joe, “but it’s not the end of the world. You wouldn’t necessarily expect necrosis, but we probably should have considered it with how long he kept playing on a fractured hip.”

“He shouldn’t have kept playing,” says Patrick.

“It’s not easy to just drop out of the season to go have surgery,” says Hayley.

“He played on it for a season and a half. He could have done something about it in between seasons.”

“That was still early,” says Hayley, frowning. “He didn’t know how bad it could be. Have some fucking heart.”

“Okay,” Joe says sternly, “this is not the place to be doing this right now. Let’s just finish what we started and get him closed up, and then we can talk to _him_ about it instead of bickering with each other.”

* * *

Patrick is smiling, bright and wide. He feels good. He’s swimming in the feeling, his mind sparking like a livewire. He’s thinking that maybe he shouldn’t feel this good, but he doesn’t really know why. It’ll come to him soon, he’s sure. He’s sitting in the hospital cafeteria, but he’s not eating. He’s not hungry. He just needed a break. He was stressed — like, _really_ stressed, but he’s not anymore. Sandman is sitting next to him. Sandman is always next to him, it seems.

“Dr. Stump, is it?” someone asks. A woman’s voice.

He turns his head. There is indeed a woman there. She’s dressed nice — impeccably, he would say.

“You’re looking at him,” says Patrick. He laughs. “Me. You’re looking at me. Which is to say, yes, I am Dr. Stump.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, looking bemused. “I understand you’re one of the residents who were present during Andy Hurley’s surgery.”

“I was, yeah,” says Patrick, “but Dr. Trohman is the one who did the whole —” he gestures wildly — “shebang. He’s great. There’s no one better to take care of Andy, I promise.” He looks at her conspiratorially and lowers his voice to a whisper. “You can trust me.”

“I, uh, appreciate the modesty,” she says. “So it went okay, then? The surgery?”

“He should have done something about it, in between seasons. I stand by that.”

She frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“He wouldn’t have necrosis if he had done something about it earlier. It’s not our fault.”

She’s writing something down. She writes fast, he notices. Really fast.

“You said necrosis? And you weren’t aware of that going in?”

“We know now,” says Patrick.

“Can you tell me anything else about it? Will it require additional surgery?”

“Maybe a hip replacement, but that’s up to him.” Too many questions. He needs to be somewhere else. “Hey, it’s great to meet you,” he says, getting up from the table. “Oh, and hey. Google is your friend.” He gives her a sympathetic smile and walks away.

“Media blitz,” says Sandman, following him. It briefly occurs to Patrick that he never got the woman's name.

* * *

The interaction barely registers as a significant event, just gets tucked into the chemical-soaked part of Patrick’s brain. Until an hour passes and Joe is heading in his direction, looking as angry as Patrick has ever seen him.

“You want to tell me what the fuck this is?” Joe shoves his phone in front of Patrick’s face. The front page of the Chicago Tribune sports section is displayed on the screen, blaring its headline at him in large bold letters: 

**Breaking News: Andy Hurley’s Surgery Could Mean the End of His Career**

His heart drops into his stomach as he takes the phone from Joe and reads:

_Andy Hurley’s right hip injury has been the subject of much speculation. He played through the injury throughout last season and most of the current one, but increasing pain prompted him to finally go in for surgery._

_The surgery took place today and was meant to repair a microfracture and torn labrum, but according to surgical resident Dr. Patrick Stump, Hurley has been diagnosed with avascular necrosis, a decaying of the bone due to lack of blood flow from the fracture. The condition was previously unknown to Hurley’s physicians and was discovered during the surgery._

_Bone necrosis is severe and incurable but can be mitigated by a joint replacement, which Dr. Stump confirmed would be at Hurley’s discretion. Either way, it’s difficult to bounce back from. Could this mean the end of Hurley’s career?_

“Shit,” says Patrick. “She was a journalist.”

“Andy _just_ woke up!” Joe is shouting. Patrick has never heard him shout before. “It’s only been an hour, Patrick! How do the press already know?”

“She didn’t say she was a journalist.” He thinks back to the cafeteria, but it feels blurry. It was all too much. He was riding on false confidence, and his filter was completely obliterated, and he didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“Patrick, the whole country knows his career is probably over, and Andy has barely had time to wrap his head around it. This should have been _his_ news to deliver. He decides when and what to tell the press. We don't get to do that for him. Now I have to go in there and try to do damage control." Joe groans. "This is not how I planned for today to go.”

“I’m sorry!” Patrick feels frantic. “She tricked me. I had no idea she was — What do you need from me? I’ll — I’ll do anything. How can I help?”

Joe’s face drops, the anger-etched lines softening until he just looks tired. “Honestly, Patrick, the best thing you can do to help right now is just stay out of the way.”

* * *

“We’re going to a party?” asks Sandman. He’s in Patrick’s bedroom, watching him lay out clothes on his bed in an attempt to put together some semblance of a last-minute Halloween costume. After the Andy fiasco, the week went by in a whirlwind of work, attempts at sleep, and watching increasingly trippy movies with Sandman on his couch. He’s trying to block out the memory of fucking over one of the Cubs’ best players, but no amount of wallowing or pills seems to be doing the job.

He didn’t have time to think about a costume until Pete intercepted him earlier and reminded him that he needs to “blow off steam.” It’s not the kind of blowing Patrick was hoping for, but he’ll take what he can get.

“ _I’m_ going to a party,” says Patrick. “You weren’t invited.”

Sandman’s face falls. “But it’s a Halloween party.”

Patrick winces. “Can you maybe, just this once, skip out on this one and give me some space? Real, live people will be at this party. It’s a party _specifically for_ real, live people.” 

“That’s ironic, because Halloween is for the dead.”

Patrick ignores him and runs his hands through his hair as he looks at the mess of clothes on his bed. “You wouldn’t happen to have a costume for me that you can just pull out of thin air or something, would you?” Patrick has never actually seen Sandman pull anything out of thin air, but his very existence defies reality, so he wouldn’t be surprised.

“You’d look good in yellow,” says Sandman, which isn’t an answer, but whatever.

Patrick finally decides to just put on a suit, a tacky tie, and a fedora and say he’s Eddie Valiant if anyone asks. He’s unrecognizable, but it’s a significant enough change from his usual work scrubs that it looks like a costume.

He wants to try to do this, his first social outing in — _how long has it been?_ — without any chemical help, and he resists for the entire drive to the party. But in the minutes before he walks up the bleak suburban drive to the cookie-cutter house looming in front of him, he frantically tips pills into his sweaty palm.

The party is at someone-or-other’s house, an orthopedic surgeon who Patrick sees almost daily but barely knows. As he walks through the house, he recognizes most of the hospital’s orthopedic group — nurses, physicians, techs, physical therapists. Sometimes it’s hard for him to wrap his head around how much adulthood still feels like childhood. Even within a hospital, people are divided into groups, and they gather together based on the labels they’re assigned — by themselves, by others, by life and its myriad circumstances.

He doesn’t have much time to contemplate the finer points of that train of thought before he feels a familiar presence next to him, the swish of Sandman’s outfit and the shuffle of his feet as he follows him around the unnecessarily spacious house, taking everything in right alongside him.

Sandman leans in and whispers, “Thanks for inviting me.” He gives Patrick a wink as he pulls back.

“I didn’t…” Patrick starts to say, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t care anymore. He's struck with an urge to reach out and take Sandman’s hand. Sandman somehow feels more real to him than the stark white walls cast with shadows of people milling about in their masks and costumes.

He’s barely been here five minutes and he already needs fresh air, needs an open space that feels less oppressive than the crowded living room filled with medical professionals brushing shoulders and touching arms and pretending they have lives and libidos. He steps outside, through the sliding glass door to the back porch.

Hayley is there, because of course she is. He backs up and starts to turn around.

“No, stay,” says Hayley. “Here, finish this for me.” She holds out her holiday-appropriate orange Solo cup.

Patrick takes it from her and sips, leaning back against the porch railing. It’s beer, something pumpkiny. “You didn’t roofie this, did you?”

“Nah. If I decide to knock you out, you’ll see it coming, trust me.”

Riding the beginnings of a synthetic wave of confidence, he decides to apologize. For everything. It spills out of him. “I’m sorry about what I said about Andy in the OR. And I’m sorry I talked to the press. And…” He hesitates as he tries to grasp the right words. How do you apologize for creating such a mess of your life that it encroaches on the people around you? “I don’t know what else, exactly, to apologize for, but I’m sorry for whatever has made you run away from me lately.”

She folds her arms and doesn’t look at him. She’s wearing a black leather jacket and deep, velvety maroon lipstick, and he doesn’t know if it’s a costume or if she’s just that effortlessly cool. He would wager it’s the latter. 

They stand there for a minute in silence, Patrick sipping his beer. He wishes he knew how to repair things — not broken bones or torn ligaments, but whatever it is that breaks inside of people when he inevitably disappoints them. 

“I know what addiction looks like,” she finally says. “I’ve spent a lot of time around it, and I know it’s not your fault. It’s just — it brings back bad memories. It’s hard for me to be around it now.”

Patrick feels his cheeks flare with heat. He wants to apologize again, for so much more than he has the words to convey, but fear grips him tightly, constricting in his throat, and instead he says, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Patrick, you work in a hospital. I think they probably know, for the most part.” She turns her head to look at him now, and he sees it in her eyes — the thing he never wanted, the opposite of the towering charisma that the chemicals pumping through his body were supposed to give him. He sees pity. “The people we work with may not be the best at broaching personal topics, but they’re smart. They know what to look for. They know the signs.”

The door slides open and a group of people spill out onto the porch, laughing and talking loudly. Hayley gives him a quick nod and heads back inside, leaving him with his thoughts.

“She’s kind of a buzzkill, isn’t she?” Sandman pipes up. “At least she gave you beer.”

* * *

The euphoria hits somewhere between his second and fifth beer. He should probably slow down, but the wave has crested and he’s swept up in it.

“Patrick?” Sandman says from behind him, except it’s not Sandman because Sandman is standing in front of him. Which means —

Patrick whirls around, and Pete is standing there dressed in a full-body skeleton costume. He has a hood pulled over his head, and his face is covered in skeletal paint. With his face partially obscured by the hood, the whites of his eyes shining, and the skeletal smile painted across his lips, he looks unnervingly like Sandman.

As if he’s reading Patrick’s mind, Sandman walks over and stands next to Pete, and Patrick can’t help himself. He giggles.

“Okay,” says Pete, “I know I went for cutesy instead of scary with my costume, but I didn’t expect to be laughed at.”

For some reason, that makes Patrick laugh harder. He doubles over, hands clutching his knees. People standing nearby look over at them.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, gasping. “It’s just, you remind me of someone.” He looks at Sandman, who’s standing next to Pete and smiling like he’s in on the joke. “And he reminds me of you!” That sends him over the edge again. Pete looked amused at first, but now he’s starting to look worried.

“How much have you had to drink? I know I said you should blow off steam, but...”

Patrick waves him off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just — oh, god. You look great, really. Great costume.”

“At least it’s obvious what I’m supposed to be. Are you Dick Tracy? Doesn’t he wear more yellow?”

“I’m Eddie Valiant. _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_? Come on.”

“Dude, that is way too obscure for anyone to guess.” Pete laughs, his eyes crinkling under the makeup. “And you’re way hotter than Eddie Valiant.”

And now Patrick is confused and, okay, a little turned on. Add to that the full-blown confidence, and he’s thinking he could potentially have Pete in his bed by the end of the night, their history be damned. He grabs Pete’s hand and pulls him to the living room. He wants to sit him down, try to get into his head and, eventually, his pants.

They’re intercepted by Mikey Way, another anesthesiologist who spends so much time attached to Pete’s side asking him questions that Patrick wonders how he manages anything on his own.

“Mikey!” Pete says with so much warmth he’s practically glowing.

Mikey is dressed as Jason Voorhees, and he somehow manages to make it look hot. His mask is lifted off of his face and resting on top of his head, mussing his silky hair in a decidedly sexy way. Together, he and Pete look like they belong at an exclusive college Halloween mixer, not at a middle-aged doctor’s suburban house drinking Sam Adams.

Mikey gives Patrick a quick hello, and then he and Pete pick up the threads of some conversation they were having earlier in the day, like they never left each other, like they’re connected by an invisible string.

“Are they fucking?” asks Sandman at Patrick’s ear. 

Mikey leans in and brushes a hand over Pete’s arm. 

“They’re definitely fucking,” says Sandman.

Patrick turns around and heads into the living room. He’s halfway to the couch when he feels a hand on his arm, and Pete materializes again, alone, no Mikey in sight.

“Hey, you disappeared on me,” says Pete. “You okay?”

He nods. He wants to say that he’s okay now that Pete’s here, now that Pete is talking to him and flirting with him and holding his hand like they’re nervous teenagers. He doesn’t know what’s changed in Pete — or what’s changed in himself, if he’s being honest. He thinks about what Hayley said. The people they work with are smart. They can recognize the signs. Does Pete see something broken in him? Is he one of those people who have a hero complex, latching onto the opportunity to fix Patrick? Is it pity, the same thing he saw in Hayley’s eyes? Has Patrick’s desperate need developed its own gravitational pull, drawing Pete in like a planet to orbit around him until he explodes into darkness, taking Pete with him?

He doesn’t know, but he’s still riding that wave, and he wants to take advantage of it while he can. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. He steps close to Pete, gently takes his hand again, threading their fingers together, and looks into his eyes. “I am now that you’re here,” he says.

Pete raises his eyebrows. “You wanna…”

Patrick isn’t entirely sure what Pete is asking, but he decides to take a gamble. He changes course and leads Pete out of the living room, away from people and into the hallway, searching for an empty room. He finds what looks like a guest room and pulls Pete inside, closing the door behind them.

He knows he's acting on impulse and probably rushing this too much, but he can’t help it. It’s been so long, and he’s surging. He flows into Pete, moving close to him, wracked with need and the memory of skin against skin. And Pete responds with just as much urgency. Their lips meet, and there’s desperation there. The kiss is deep and reckless, their mouths open, breathing in each other’s breath, taking each other in. Patrick moves his hands up to cup Pete’s face, runs his thumb along Pete’s jawline.

They probably look ridiculous, he thinks, Pete in his skeleton onesie and Patrick in a full suit, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Pete groans and thrusts against him, and now Patrick is thanking every deity he can think of for that onesie because he can feel the entire length of Pete’s hard cock against his hip, and he _wants_.

“Come home with me,” he breathes, sweeping his lips over Pete’s neck against his hairline.

“Patrick…”

Patrick presses against him, runs his hands down his sides and around his waist, pulling him closer, pressing their cocks together.

A breathy groan escapes Pete’s lips, and Patrick catches it with his own, kissing him deep and desperate again as they grind against each other. 

“Patrick, I can’t.” He feels Pete pull away, and he wants to pull him back, wants to feel him supple against him. He doesn’t want to lose that. Not again. He presses a kiss behind Pete’s ear and feels the slow, deep exhale of Pete’s chest against his. "I can't do this."

Patrick sighs and pulls back. He looks into Pete’s eyes, focusing on their mahogany warmth, trying desperately to avoid the chill of rejection.

Pete smiles softly and lifts his hand to Patrick’s face. He runs his thumb over Patrick’s mouth and then holds it up to show Patrick. It’s covered in smeared black-and-white paint.

“That’s not gonna be obvious,” he says, smiling.

Patrick wants to smile and laugh. He wants to be okay with this, but he has to know. “Why can’t you do this?”

“We’re at someone else’s house, for one thing,” says Pete.

“Then come home with me.” 

Pete looks away.

What’s the other thing?” asks Patrick. “What’s the real reason?”

Pete doesn’t answer. The wave breaks and crashes, and Patrick realizes that he’s standing uncomfortably close to someone who doesn’t want to be there with him. So he steps away, and as he’s walking out the door he thinks he hears Pete say his name, but he’s not sure enough to turn around.

* * *

Sandman is sitting on the couch watching _Jacob’s Ladder_. Patrick picks up the remote from the coffee table and switches off the TV, plunging his apartment into silence and darkness. It feels like a liminal space, existing outside the bounds of anything that matters. Nothing can touch him here. Sandman doesn’t protest, just looks up at Patrick, his eyes glowing and his mouth set in a somber line. It’s almost as if he knows.

Patrick pulls Sandman up off the couch. There’s a bit of pain in the resemblance to Pete. It hurts a little to look at him, but he does. He looks him in the eyes and says, “I want you to take me with you. Give me sweet dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I love Andy very much. Come shout at me on [tumblr](https://openendeddoor.tumblr.com/).


	4. Can't Remember the Good Old Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Snitches, as always, for beta reading and for helping me find the right direction for this fic. <3

Of all the places that could possibly be lodged in his subconscious, Patrick never expected a carnival. A record store, maybe, where he could pick through his tangled thoughts like unorganized album stacks. Instead, he’s standing in front of a ticket booth, and in the distance he can see rows of carnival games, a ferris wheel, a giant tent, and a carousel on a hill overlooking everything. There’s a slight breeze carrying with it the aromas of cotton candy and popcorn. He remembers going to the fair with his dad as a kid, being toted around on his shoulders, holding tightly to a brand new stuffed rabbit he’d won. Maybe this is meant to be a place of comfort, reminding him of his childhood with his dad. It’s more likely that his brain is just as chaotic as a carnival.

Sandman looks over at him and reaches out his hand, and Patrick takes it without hesitation. He’s come this far. No turning back now.

They climb the hill to an elegant, old-fashioned carousel, its overhead lights casting a soft golden glow over intricately painted horses as it turns. Patrick can make out two figures riding the carousel. As they approach, Sandman punches a button on the machine operating the ride, and it comes to a gradual stop.

Patrick honestly didn’t think anything else could surprise him at this point, but as the carousel slows and stops, he recognizes the faces sitting on two of the horses. 

“Wha— Why are Joe and Andy here?”

“Who and who?” Sandman grins.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “It would be fantastic if mysterious ghost-hallucinations didn’t always avoid the fucking question.” 

“Maybe they mean something to you,” says Sandman, shrugging. “If I’m wish fulfillment, then what are they?”

As they come into clearer view, Patrick realizes that, like Sandman, they're made up to fit into this strange, Oz-like world. Joe is...hairier. His curls cascade past his shoulders, and he’s sporting some extreme mutton chops. He’s dressed in a garish red suit with a matching tiny top hat. Andy’s hair is longer, too, and he’s wearing a green suit, bowtie, and hat, his suit jacket hanging open to reveal his tattooed torso. 

“Is this him?” asks Not Joe.

“This is Dr. Benzedrine,” says Pete, looking at Patrick like he’s a prize he just won in one of the carnival games.

“No, that’s not — I’m Patrick,” he says, exasperated.

“This is Horseshoe Crab,” Sandman says, pointing at Not Joe. “And that’s Donnie the Catcher.” He points at Not Andy.

“Just Donnie will do,” says, apparently, Donnie.

Patrick figures he might as well accept dream logic, so he twists his face into something resembling a smile and says, “Um, hello.”

“We were wondering when you’d come,” says Horseshoe. He moves to the edge of the carousel and sits down, his legs dangling.

“You were expecting me?” asks Patrick.

“Sandman told us about you,” says Horseshoe. (And he sounds  _ so much  _ like Joe. Patrick wants to ask him if he got the charts he filled out on Thursday.)

“Said you were taking some time, but you’d be here eventually,” says Donnie, who Patrick is admittedly having trouble looking at. The Andy debacle is still too fresh in his mind.

Patrick turns to Sandman. “How did you know?”

“I just did,” Sandman shrugs and grabs Patrick’s hand, pulling him onto the carousel.

Donnie pulls a lever, and a compartment in the middle of the carousel opens, revealing an assortment of musical instruments. Patrick’s heart jumps into his throat. He still has a guitar at home, a battered black Martin acoustic-electric, but he rarely pulls it out and plays it. It feels too much like opening an old wound.

He watches as Donnie starts pulling out the pieces of a drum kit and arranging it on an empty space of the carousel. Sandman pulls out a bass guitar decorated with a symbol that Patrick recognizes as the tattoo on Pete’s lower abdomen — the same tattoo he licked over while Pete writhed underneath him. Horseshoe grabs an electric guitar and looks at Patrick. “Pick your poison,” he says.

“Same as you,” says Patrick, and Horseshoe smiles and tosses him a guitar.

There’s a brief discussion about song choices, and then they’re playing music. They fall into it easily, finding each other’s groove, and for the first time in a long time, Patrick feels like he belongs somewhere. Beneath the sheen of the carnival, there’s a comfortable familiarity, and he can see remnants of the nights he used to have when he was in his teens and early twenties. He can see his old band members onstage with him at Old Town. They play for a long time, and Patrick feels looser and lighter than he has in years. It feels like an echo of something else, some other world where they're all happy and they’re far removed from medicine and pills and physical therapy, and instead they do this all the time — just play music together. Patrick wants that world.

When they finish, Donnie passes around beers, and they each take a horse. 

Sandman regards him thoughtfully. “You’re happier here,” he says.

“I haven’t gotten to do that in a while,” Patrick says, his eyes flicking to the instruments, where they sit on the carousel. Sandman looks pleased. 

“Why aren’t you happy out there?” asks Horseshoe, gesturing toward the carnival entrance.

“He’s happy  _ here _ , and that’s all that matters,” Sandman snaps at Horseshoe before looking back at Patrick. “You should stay with us here. You’re having fun, right? More fun than that farce of a Halloween party.”

“I have a life and a job,” says Patrick. “You know that. I can’t just leave it and live in a fantasy world instead.”

“You let fear control you out there,” says Sandman, “but there’s nothing to fear here. Here it’s all sunshine and music and carbs.” He tips his beer in Patrick’s direction. 

“You’re playing peekaboo,” Donnie chimes in. “If you don’t look at the world, maybe it can’t see you.”

“But isn’t that all the more reason for me to be out there in the real world,” Patrick says, “instead of — wherever this is? Face the fear? Do some good?”

“You don’t have to change the world,” says Sandman. “Just change yourself.”

Before Patrick can respond, Horseshoe says, “Hey, come on. I want to show you something.”

Horseshoe jumps down from the carousel and Patrick follows him. They make their way to a large, gaudy circus tent. Horseshoe lifts a flap and they go inside, but instead of being met with a ringmaster and clowns, all he sees is piercing, blinding light. Patrick winces and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he’s back in the real world. “Wait,” he says.

“What is it?” asks Joe — and it  _ is _ actually Joe. Horseshoe is gone, and Patrick is in the OR with Dr. Trohman, who’s prepping for a surgery. The patient on the table looks familiar, and Patrick has an intense sense of deja vu, like he's already done this, before realizing that's because he  _ has _ . He's somehow stepped out of a dream into a memory. He’s a couple of weeks into his residency, still getting to know Joe and his way around the OR.

“That’s a real, live person,” Patrick says, barely keeping his voice from trembling. And Patrick remembers — this was his first surgery, the first one  _ he  _ performed rather than just watching Joe.

“Uh, yeah,” says Joe. “They didn’t skip over that part in med school, did they? I mean, it’s kind of important.”

“What if I fuck up?”

“Do you think you’re gonna fuck up?” asks Joe.

Patrick gives Joe a pained look.

“Hey,” Joe’s expression softens. “You can do this. You’re not on your own. Eventually, you will be, but even then you’ll be in a hospital full of other surgeons, and if you get stuck, you can call them. But right now I’m here, and you’re gonna be fine, okay?”

Patrick gives him a small, unsure nod.

“Hey, you play guitar, right?”

“Yeah,” says Patrick, wondering why in the world Joe is bringing that up now.

“And you’ve played in front of people before?”

“Yeah — a lot, actually.”

“Do you remember the first time you played in front of people?”

“Yeah,” Patrick smiles. “I’ll never forget it.”

“This is just like that. This is that first show, your first time playing in front of a crowd. You’ve practiced for it — hours and hours of practice. And maybe not everything will go exactly the way you rehearsed it, but that’s okay. You’ll play through it, and you’ll make it good — beautiful, even. Surgery’s no different from music. You’re affecting people on a visceral level, and you’re making their lives better. And you have bandmates right beside you. You’ve got me. So let’s do this. Let’s play some music, alright?”

“Okay, yeah.” Patrick nods again, and this time he feels like he means it. “Yeah. Let’s play some music.”

As Patrick heads toward the operating table, the light attacks his eyes again and he squeezes them shut.

He’s back in the dreamworld, or whatever it is, and Andy — no, Donnie — is with him. They’re standing outside the entrance to a baseball diamond. “Welcome back to the weirdness,” deadpans Donnie.

“Wait,” says Patrick. “What was that, back in the tent? Where’s Joe — Horseshoe?”

“Didn’t you enjoy the show?” asks Donnie. “Come on.” He gestures for Patrick to follow.

“Hey,” Patrick says, stopping abruptly and touching Donnie’s shoulder. “I don’t know if this will mean anything here, but I’m sorry for what I did — for making things more difficult for you.”

Donnie looks at him bemusedly. “I don’t know what you mean. We practically just met, didn't we?”

"Yeah," Patrick sighs, "I guess we did."

They walk through the entrance to the field, and, oh god, it’s happening again — a blinding light. Patrick groans.

“That really hurts my eyes,” he says.

“Then don’t look at it,” says Vicky, who’s sitting next to him in the stands at Wrigley Field. It’s another memory, this time from earlier in the year. Spring is in full bloom, and the air is warm and pungent with grass and hot dogs and beer. 

“Seriously, though,” says Hayley from his other side. “Why would you put blue text on a red background? There’s no contrast. Whoever came up with that ad should be fired.”

“Thank you,” says Patrick. “That ad is doing the opposite of its intended effect. I don’t even want to look at the Jumbotron anymore.”

Vicky laughs. “You’re gonna miss all of the replays. And the kiss cam! What if somebody  _ proposes _ on the kiss cam and you miss it because of your precious eyes?”

“Then my precious eyes will also be spared from one of the least creative marriage proposals imaginable.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s kinda cute,” says Hayley. “It might not be that creative, but there’s something innocent and sweet about it. And if you love baseball, then it’s kind of the ultimate, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” says Patrick. “You know who  _ doesn’t  _ love baseball? Us. Why are we here again?”

“Because we’re Chicagoans,” says Vicky. “You have to go to at least one Cubs game every two years to keep your Chicago cred. Otherwise the mayor kicks you out of the city.”

“We’re here because the hospital gave us free tickets,” says Hayley, “and as a medical professional, I recommend fresh air and vitamin D.”

There’s a loud  _ crack  _ as a bat collides with the ball, and the crowd goes wild.

“Hey, isn’t that Pete Wentz?” asks Hayley, squinting at someone further down in the stands to their right. Patrick follows her eyes, and it is indeed Pete Wentz, standing up and cheering with everyone else.

“Oh, shit,” says Patrick, burrowing down into his seat. “He has to ruin everything, doesn’t he? Even things I already dislike.”

“What the hell happened with you two?” asks Vicky. “Why do you hate him so much?”

“We kind of...um…” Patrick is trying to formulate the right words to delicately announce that he and Pete fucked, when Hayley gasps.

“You fucked!” she nearly shouts.

“Shh!” hisses Patrick. “There are kids here!”

“You  _ fucked _ ,” she whispers emphatically. 

Vicky’s mouth is hanging open, and she has that look on her face that Patrick’s known since high school — the “I won’t let you leave here until you give me every detail” look.

“Yes, okay? We did,” says Patrick, “but it doesn’t matter, because he left without saying anything, and now he’s avoiding me.”

“He just left?” asks Vicky.

“There must have been a reason,” offers Hayley.

“Yeah. Look at him,” says Patrick. “Guys who look like that don’t hang around for guys who look like me. That’s the reason.”

“Patrick,” says Vicky. “come on. I’m sure it’s something else. You guys work together. It’s not like he can  _ actually _ avoid you.”

“You’d be surprised,” says Patrick. “He’s doing a pretty good job of it.”

“You should talk to him,” says Hayley.

“I’ve tried,” says Patrick. “Trust me, he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“I don’t know,” Vicky says thoughtfully. “I know you, and you give up way too easily because you think so little of yourself. He probably thinks you don’t care.”

“I  _ don’t  _ care,” says Patrick, “and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It doesn’t matter. There are other fish and all that.”

Patrick catches the discreet look that Vicky gives Hayley that she doesn’t think he sees. But then she says, “We need more beer,” and waves over the concession vendor, and Hayley snakes her arm into the crook of Patrick’s elbow and cuddles up close to him, and he decides to let it go.

The light hits his eyes again, and when it fades, he’s sitting in the bleachers by himself. The field here is much smaller, closer in scale to his high school’s field than Wrigley. Donnie is down on the diamond playing baseball with a few other strangely dressed denizens of this place. To his right, a few bleachers down, Sandman sits alone, a dark contrast against this bright world.

Patrick gets up and walks across the bleachers. He hops down and sits next to Sandman.

“Are you having a good time?” asks Sandman.

“I guess,” says Patrick. He shrugs. “A little sad, maybe.”

“Why? This is such a happy place.”

“I miss my friends, and I think I might be pushing them away.”

“Hey,” says Sandman, and he scoots closer to Patrick, until their thighs are touching. “Cheer up, Benzedrine.” He brushes Patrick’s cheek with his fingertips.

“Why are you doing this?” Patrick pulls away from Sandman’s touch. “You just came into my life all of a sudden to — what — remind me what I’m missing out on?”

“It’s not what it seems in the land of dreams.”

Patrick sighs. “Yeah, I should’ve known you wouldn’t give me an actual answer.”

They sit there silently for a while, just watching the game. Patrick’s thoughts feel like water flowing through his fingers. He can’t seem to grasp them. Deep down, he knows what this is. It doesn’t matter how real any of this feels — the breeze cooling his face, Sandman’s leg warm against his. He hasn’t wanted to face his addiction head-on, but he knew this was a possibility, especially for someone who’s been using as long as he has.

He doesn’t need Horseshoe or Donnie to take him back to the day he looked at his prescription bottle and decided that 35 milligrams wasn’t enough, or when he met his dealer for the first time in the corner of his dorm’s common area, or when he crushed up pills and snorted them for the first time on his RA’s sticky coffee table. Those memories are burned into his brain. Patrick isn’t sure he knows who he is anymore underneath the chemical fog. He thinks he’s a terrified, incoherent, sweaty mess. But maybe he’s just a different kind of mess now — one that’s beginning to have collateral damage. Maybe he just needs to decide which mess is more worth managing.

He looks at Sandman, and all he can see is Pete. He talks to Pete almost every day of his life — he has to, and their relationship has been as fraught as a working relationship can be, but there’s chemistry underneath the chemicals. Patrick knows there is. For the first time, he allows himself to admit that maybe he  _ is _ the reason Pete has been running away, and maybe it’s far less superficial than the quality of the sex. 

Sandman looks back at him and grins, but it’s sad this time, an echo of his usual wide smile. “You don’t want to stay here, do you, doc?”

“No,” says Patrick. “I don’t think I do.”

“It’s too bad,” says Sandman. “I’m gonna miss you, Benzedrine.”

Sandman leans in, and Patrick doesn’t pull away this time. He lets Sandman’s lips press against his, breathes in his otherworldly scent, and runs his fingers through his hair. They kiss for what feels like a long time. Patrick has no sense of time right now, and part of him wants to stay here in this place, where he’s sure in the knowledge that everyone wants him around, and where he’s not at risk of losing Sandman, this beautiful echo of Pete.

When they finally pull apart, Patrick says, “You know, in some strange way, I think I’m really gonna miss you, too.”

He thinks he’s coming down.

* * *

Patrick spends most of the weekend trying to ride through the comedown. He lasts as long as he can without a fix, breathing through the full-body pain. His appetite is a black hole, and he eats almost everything he can find in his sparse kitchen. He can’t sleep, and he can’t focus on anything, so he just paces.

Sandman is still there, but he’s quiet. He’s not milling about Patrick’s apartment, rummaging in the kitchen cabinets or keeping a running commentary of horror movies from the couch. Instead, he just silently watches Patrick. Sometimes he stays out of sight, and Patrick only catches a glimpse of him as he passes by when he enters a room. He tries to grab him once, to hold onto him, but his hand misses, or maybe it passes through — he can’t be sure.

Eventually, after almost a day has gone by, Sandman disappears completely, and Patrick misses him more than he ever imagined he could. He realizes he took him for granted, and now, on top of the agony of withdrawal, there’s an ache in his chest that won’t go away. Sandman felt so  _ real.  _ He was always there, an unexpected source of comfort, and Patrick  _ needs  _ him. He desperately wants him back. He wants to feel his hand solid against his cheek, wants to roll his eyes at his dumb jokes and refuse to eat the food he cooks. He wants the gentle reassurance of his sweet dreams, wrapped up in the warmth of good memories.

Finally, he gives in. It’s not good to quit cold turkey anyway, right? He takes less than usual, but not by much, and the relief is intense when it hits. He sits on his couch and waits, expecting Sandman to come striding out of the darkness of the hallway and sit down next to him. He looks for the pinpoints of Sandman’s glowing eyes, like twin stars in the night sky. After a while, he turns on the TV and pops  _ Absentia  _ into the DVD player, thinking that maybe a horror movie will lure Sandman out. Instead, his apartment stays dark aside from the glow of the TV screen, and he’s painfully aware that he’s a 30-year-old man sitting alone in his apartment wishing back his imaginary friend.

When he comes down again, he feels like he’ll never stop sinking.

* * *

When he returns to the hospital, he walks directly to Joe’s office, moving quickly and trying not to think about it too much so that he doesn’t change his mind. The door is open, but Joe is looking over a chart intently, cradling his head in his hands, so Patrick knocks lightly to get his attention.

Looking up, Joe says, “What’s up, Dr. Stump?”

“Can I talk to you for a second, um, privately?”

“Sure, sure,” says Joe, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of his desk.

Patrick closes the door behind him and sits down. He realizes now that he made a conscious decision when he told Sandman he didn’t want to stay with him. He said goodbye, he chose to face the real world, and now he has to follow through. 

When he was little, he was afraid to swallow pills. They hurt too much going down, and he would whine and refuse until his mom finally convinced him to do it, that the smaller struggle would take away the bigger pain. Life is full of irony, he thinks. It’s just a series of unexpected, ridiculous moments when you think that everything is so much worse than it really is. This is just like swallowing a pill as a kid, he thinks. It won’t be so bad in the end. He’ll get through it.

He looks at his hands and takes a deep breath. “I’m an addict,” he exhales, “and you’re the first person who I’ve said that out loud to, but I think you’re the first person who needs to know.”

Joe just looks at him for a beat, and Patrick can’t help but notice he doesn’t look surprised. But he thinks he sees something else there, too. His mind jumps to  _ pity _ , but he forces himself to think of it as  _ sympathy _ instead.

“I’m glad you told me,” Joe says, his demeanor as calm and measured as it would be if he were standing in the operating room. It lasts all of five seconds before he breaks and says, “Damn it, Patrick, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I’m afraid,” Patrick says softly, “that I’ll lose my career and that you and everyone else will think less of me.”

Joe shakes his head. “I knew you were struggling, and I should’ve reached out to you the minute I recognized something was wrong. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No,” says Patrick. “If anything, I’ve made it harder on everyone here, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Let’s just agree to disagree,” says Joe, surprising Patrick. “It stands to reason that if you’re falling back on drugs to get you through the day, then we’re failing you.  _ I’m _ failing you. This job takes everything out of you, and the pressure to be perfect every single day is exhausting. Trust me, I have the divorce papers to show for it.”

“Wait, what?”

Joe sighs and rubs his face. “Yeah. Marie understands it’s the nature of the job, but that doesn’t change the fact that we rarely see each other. When I’m home, I’m spending every second I can with the kids. I don’t have time for anything but them outside of work. It doesn't exactly make for a satisfying marriage."

"I’m really sorry, man. I had no idea."

Joe shrugs. "I haven't told anyone. Trade you a secret for a secret.”

“But you already knew  _ my _ secret. You hold yourself together so well. None of us would ever know.”

“I’ve had a little bit more practice at this than you,” Joe says wearily. He’s letting his cracks show, and Patrick is having trouble processing the revelation that there are even any cracks at all. Maybe he’s been holding Joe up on a pedestal, and maybe that’s a problem in and of itself. “Nobody expects a resident to have it all together in their first year. You’re doing great, Patrick. You always have been. And nobody’s going to think less of you for struggling. We all are.”

“Well, fuck,” says Patrick, and Joe laughs.

“Look,” says Joe, leaning forward, “addiction is actually pretty common in healthcare workers. There are treatment programs tailored to people in the medical field. We actually have one here at the hospital. I can help get you into it, and you don’t have to worry about forgoing your medical license or anything like that. Just take some time off, go to the program, and take care of yourself. We’ll be here when you get back.”

Patrick doesn’t know how to feel. He knows things aren’t going to be easy for him from here on out, but he didn’t expect  _ this _ part of the process to be this easy. “I don’t know how to thank —”

“Don’t,” says Joe. “Just focus on getting better, and, like, talk to me about this stuff in the future, okay? I’m not here to judge. I get it.”

Patrick nods vigorously. He wants to give Joe a hug, but he’s not sure if they’re there yet.

But before Patrick can finish that thought, Joe is saying, “Alright, come here,” and he’s standing up and pulling Patrick in for a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Pete! The real Pete! And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the real Andy either.
> 
> Sandman's line about only changing yourself instead of the world is a tiny Velvet Goldmine reference.


	5. Half-Doomed and Semi-Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between the last chapter and this one, we gained a new president here in the US!! Feels really damn good to have the orange menace gone.
> 
> So, this fic was originally planned to be six chapters, but I feel like it came to its natural conclusion early, so this will be the end, folks. It's been a rough one, but hopefully this chapter will provide some much-needed hope for our boys. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, everything. And I know I sound like a broken record, but thanks again to Snitches for having faith in this fic and supporting me the whole way through. <3

To say that treatment isn’t easy would be an understatement. Patrick knew that going in, but it’s somehow worse than he imagined. Despite all of the methods the nurses use, medicinal and holistic, the detox is still painful. And the group therapy sessions are painful in a different way. Listening to the stories of the people sitting around him, he feels like he doesn’t belong. Everyone else is recovering from a coke or heroin habit. He just took some pills — I mean,  _ come on _ . How much does he actually need this?

But he’s learning coping mechanisms for the withdrawal, which will eventually turn into coping mechanisms for the things that led him to pills in the first place, so underneath all of the excuses and outs that his mind tries to provide, he knows he’s really no different from any other kind of addict, and he needs this. There’s also the nagging voice in the back of his mind that keeps reminding him that Joe went out on a limb for him, and he doesn’t want to let him down. So he breathes through the pain and he grits his teeth and he tries.

The treatment program is partial hospitalization, so he goes to the hospital every day, seven days a week, just like he’s going to work, and in the evenings, he goes home. The nights are the worst. That’s when the haze of loneliness settles over him, and he aches for a distraction. He has trouble sleeping, and when he does sleep, he dreams of a painted-on smile and a carnival filled with music, and he wakes up yearning to return to it.

* * *

It turns out, the behavioral health section of the hospital is right next to the physical therapy section. A week into his treatment, Patrick runs into Andy Hurley, almost literally colliding with him as they walk out of the side-by-side exit doors at the same time, both looking down at their phones.

“Oh, sorry, man,” Andy says, and Patrick realizes he doesn’t recognize him. Why would he? He was just one in a sea of faces Andy saw on the way to his career crashing and burning, just a name in an article that delivered the news that would shatter Andy’s world. Patrick could walk away, chalk it up as a simple mistake, and never think about it again. Except nothing about it is simple, and Patrick will think about it constantly, lying awake at night stewing in his guilt.

So he forces himself to say, “Hey, uh, Andy?”

Andy glances at him, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I don’t really do autographs anymore, man. Sorry.”

“No,” Patrick says, stepping forward before Andy turns away, “that’s not what I want.”

Andy’s eyes narrow. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Kind of,” says Patrick. “Um, I’m one of the residents who were present for your surgery.”

“Are you Patrick?”

Patrick involuntarily winces, as if the very act of being  _ Patrick _ is painful. “Yeah.”

Andy slowly nods. “You’re the one who broke the news to the media.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says again, still wincing internally. “I, uh, wanted to apologize about that. It wasn’t my place to do that, and I’m really, really sorry for any trouble it caused.”

“It was kind of a shitstorm,” Andy says, and Patrick’s stomach hurts. “But, eh,” he shrugs, “I’m more concerned about the reporter than you. I know how they can be, and Joe told me you were caught off-guard.”

Patrick is so relieved he almost hugs Andy, but — “Joe?” Patrick muses. There’s something in the way Andy is casually using Joe and Patrick’s first names — an easy familiarity, like he knows them as more than just his doctors.

“We’ve been hanging out since my surgery. He’s a cool dude. We’ve been playing music together.”

“You have?” Patrick is stunned. Joe has mentioned playing guitar once or twice, and he vaguely remembers a viral video of Andy air drumming to Neil Peart, but he didn’t realize either of them played regularly or had been playing  _ together _ . “You play drums, right?”

“Yeah. It helps take my mind off all of this,” Andy gestures to the physical therapy entrance, “and as long as I don’t go too crazy on the bass drum, it’s not bad on the hip. Helps loosen it up.” 

“That’s really good, man,” says Patrick.

“Hey, Joe mentioned you play. You wanna jam with us sometime?”

“I… Yeah, that would be amazing.” Patrick owes Joe the biggest, fanciest dinner imaginable, complete with cocktails that, alone, cost as much as his salary.

“Here, lemme give you my number.”

When Patrick gets home, he pulls out his dusty guitar, and after that, the nights aren’t so bad anymore.

* * *

Exactly thirty-one days later, it’s a snowy, wintry Chicago Friday, and Patrick is heading to the hospital not as a patient but as a resident surgeon once again. He’ll still make check-ins to the treatment center for a while, but they’ll be weekly, for a couple of hours at a time, instead of daily, and the hospital will accomodate for the visits in his schedule.

He finds it easier to get back into the groove of a normal workday than he thought he would. Muscle memory takes over, and his day goes by much like it did before. Aside from somewhat ceremoniously handing him a scalpel, Joe doesn’t mention his treatment, and neither does anyone else. He’s not sure whether to be grateful that everyone is acting like he hasn’t been gone for a month or annoyed that no one is acknowledging his — notable, he had hoped, at the very least — absence.

Then, at the end of his shift, he walks into the lounge and almost has a coronary when a group of people shout at him simultaneously as he enters. He realizes they’re his co-workers, and they’re shouting “Welcome back!” Hayley pulls on a popper and confetti flies everywhere, making Patrick feel bad for whoever has to clean the lounge later and fluttering precariously close to a mountain of donuts arranged on the table.

“Did you guys seriously plan a welcome-back party?” Patrick asks, but he’s smiling despite himself.

“You know how much we love parties around here,” says Joe, who walks up to Patrick and puts an arm around his shoulders in a half-hug. “Welcome back to the crew. It’s not like I haven’t seen you since last weekend, but I’ve missed you looking over my shoulder every day.”

“I’ve missed you breathing down my neck.”

“Gross.”

Seconds later, Vicky rushes toward Patrick and almost tackles him into a hug. He’s talked to her over the phone since he’s been in treatment, but he hasn’t seen her in person in over a month, and he didn’t realize until now how much he missed her face.

“I love you, you asshole,” she says softly.

He squeezes her a little tighter and says, “Yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

* * *

The party doesn’t last long — medical professionals are busy people — but it’s nice, and Patrick has a significant case of the warm fuzzies. As things are winding down, he’s sitting on one of the wide window sills, watching Pete and trying not to be obvious about it, when Mikey Way saunters up and sits next to him.

“You should talk to him,” he says. Mikey has a way of making you want to listen to him. He speaks so rarely, and when he does, it’s measured and decisive, like he’s given it the appropriate amount of thought to deem it worth saying out loud.

Patrick shrugs. “What is there to talk about?”

“The fact that you two can’t stop staring at each other, for one thing,” says Mikey, “and you’re both doing a horrible job of hiding it.”

“He’s attractive,” says Patrick, shrugging again. “You of all people know that.”

Mikey leans back and folds his arms, considering. “Pete and I could never be anything more than casual flings here and there.”

“Is that the kind of guy he is? Casual flings here and there?”

“I think he pretends to be. But I think if he met the right person, that would change.”

“And who is the right person for Pete Wentz?”

“The unstoppable force to his immovable object.”

Patrick snorts.

“I’m serious,” says Mikey. “Pete needs someone who won’t give up on him — who will keep trying even when he runs away.”

Patrick looks at Mikey. “Do you know what happened between us?”

Mikey fidgets a little, crossing one foot over the other. “He told me.”

“Did he tell you why he left?”

“He didn’t have to. I know him well enough to know why.” Patrick can’t help it — he’s annoyed. Mikey doesn’t have to be so mysterious, and he doesn’t have to be so attractive, and he doesn’t have to know Pete so much better than Patrick knows him, and Patrick is equally annoyed at all of the above.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell  _ me _ why, then?” Patrick huffs.

“It’s not my place to tell you. Talk to him.”

“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

“Trust me. He does.” Mikey stands up and stretches lithely. “He just gets scared sometimes.”

“Welcome home, by the way,” Mikey adds before striding away.

* * *

Patrick doesn’t take Mikey's advice right away. He lets himself settle back into his work routine, and he lets himself settle back into a comfortable routine with Pete as well. There’s no more teasing, and any remaining awkwardness melts away until there’s only the easy companionship of two people who work together. He almost wants it to stay that way — risk-free, simple, knowing Pete but not really  _ knowing  _ him.

But Patrick spent a month trying not to think about Pete or drug-induced hallucinatory episodes involving Pete lookalikes, and now that Pete is back in his daily periphery, he finds himself wanting to think about him again and talk to him about more than the intravenous and inhalable drugs that get pumped into their mutual patients. Pete is the closest Patrick has come to a romantic relationship in years, and he has a bridge to mend.

At the end of a snowy day in late November, Patrick is getting ready to leave for the night. People trickle out of the lounge, until eventually Patrick notices that he and Pete are all that’s left. Pete is moving slowly, gathering his things, not looking at Patrick.

Patrick approaches him and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” echoes Pete, looking up from where he’s leaning down zipping his bag.

“Leaving for the day?” Patrick asks tentatively.

“Yeah, shift’s over.”

“Me, too,” says Patrick. “There’s still some daylight left. Do you wanna grab a coffee?”

Pete stands up fully then, looking Patrick in the eyes, and Patrick had forgotten how intense it can be — the weight of Pete’s stare, how much of a force Pete Wentz is, how much he pulls you in and makes you never want to let go. “Coffee sounds good.”

An hour later, they’re sitting in a coffee shop while snow blows sideways outside, bundled up over their scrubs. They’ve been through the typical “how are you doing” and “how was work” and “this lake effect weather really is something huh” when silence finally settles over them. Pete is looking out the window. To the falling snow, he says, “We missed you, you know.”

“I missed you, too,” Patrick says, eyes on Pete, intentional in the discernible double-meaning of his words —  _ I missed you the most _ , he thinks. Pete turns away from the window to look at him, and Patrick decides that he doesn’t want to lose him again. Whatever this is between them, they need to clear the air and give it a chance to grow instead of stomping it down every time it shows signs of life. And if Patrick is the reason they haven’t been able to do that yet, then he needs to give it one last try.

“I’m sorry about the Halloween party, if I came on too strong.”

Pete smiles. He seems loosened up, maybe even comfortable. Patrick makes a mental note that sugary coffee drinks seem to lift Pete’s spirits. “You didn’t. It was actually kind of sexy.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He’s trying to be casual, trying to make this whole situation casual.

“I don’t think so?” Patrick says. “I mean, from where I’m standing, it seems like I made you uncomfortable, and I’m really sorry if I did.”

Pete sighs. “It wasn’t you. I mean, you were a little off that night, but I wanted to be with you. It’s just…” His words trail off, turning into a thoughtful frown.

“Have you known this whole time? Is that why...” Patrick takes a deep breath. “Were you afraid to be with me because I’m an addict?”

“No!” Pete says, leaning forward suddenly. “God, no. I mean, that night — you know, the Christmas party?”

Patrick nods and closes his eyes briefly, letting a wave of embarrassment pass over him.

“I saw the pills in your bathroom, and I’d seen you taking them at the hospital, trying to sneak them in the lounge. I put two and two together, so yeah, I knew. But it wasn’t because of that, exactly. I can work with that.”

“Then what was it?”

Pete looks around, like he’s checking to make sure there’s no one close by who will hear him, and Patrick follows suit. The coffee shop is fairly large, and they're sitting in a secluded corner. It's getting dark, near closing time, and the weather is bad, so it's not crowded. There's no one else around.

“I don’t tell many people this,” Pete says softly, “but I’m diagnosed bipolar — have been since my teens. About ten years ago, I got in my car and drove to Best Buy, sat in the parking lot, and took a bunch of Ativan. The person I was dating at the time… Things didn’t go well after that. Things don’t usually go well with the people who try to date me. I’m not good for relationships. I ruin people.”

“There’s no way that’s true,” says Patrick, shaking his head to try to emphasize the point.

“It is, and when I realized you were struggling, I should have done something, said something, and I’m sorry I didn’t. But my mindset at the time was that I’d only make you worse. You were this bright, beautiful thing, just starting your residency, and if you were already struggling, then I knew I’d only drag you down.”

“I did a pretty good job of that on my own,” says Patrick. 

Pete’s face falls, and he reaches out and takes Patrick’s hand. “I feel like it’s partially my fault.”

“Trust me, it’s not,” says Patrick, giving Pete’s hand a small squeeze. “I was heading down that road no matter what. But can I ask you something?”

Pete nods and focuses his gaze on Patrick’s eyes.

“Can you let people decide for themselves if they want to take a chance on you? You’re a good guy, Pete. You’re not some kind of monster who’s going to ruin everything he touches, but you  _ are _ a little bit of a flight risk.”

Pete smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that melts Patrick every single time he gets to witness it. “Do you really want to take a chance on me?”

“I really, really do.”

“Okay, but… You might have to be patient with me.”

Patrick laughs mirthlessly. “The fact that you would say that, as though you don’t realize you’ll have to be patient with me, too.” And Patrick thinks he gets it then. Pete sees his flaws as so significant that they overshadow everyone else’s. If Patrick was holding himself up to ridiculous standards, it’s nothing compared to Pete, who doesn’t even value himself enough to set any standards at all.

* * *

They talk until a barista comes over and politely tells them it’s closing time, and they leave with apologies on their tongues. They talk outside in the cold, bodies close and fingers intertwined. They talk in Patrick’s car as he drives them to his apartment, and they don’t stop talking until they’re inside, quieting each other with kisses.

There’s a tiny voice inside Patrick’s mind telling him not to do this, that it’s just going to hurt, that Pete is going to change his mind and run away again or push him away, but it’s very easy to shut that part of his brain up when Pete’s lips are on his.

Pete feels, sounds, smells, tastes the same as Patrick remembers, and he’s almost too far gone at just the thought of getting Pete underneath him again. Pete seems eager to make it happen, though, because he’s pulling at Patrick’s scrub top, yanking it off with the shirt underneath still attached. Patrick shivers slightly, his torso bare, and Pete pulls away from Patrick’s lips and moves down to lick at Patrick’s chest. Patrick runs his fingers through Pete’s hair — it’s black now, the sunny bleach having been replaced with his natural color sometime during Patrick’s absence from work. It looks good.  _ Pete  _ looks good, and Patrick wants to see more of him.

He pulls off Pete’s scrub top and undershirt, following Pete’s lead, and runs his hands over Pete’s sculpted chest and stomach, tracing the tattoo on his pelvis and pulling his scrub bottoms down slightly to reveal more of it. “Hey, do you play bass?” he murmurs, the thought of Sandman’s bass imprinted with Pete’s tattoo flickering behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” Pete says, his mouth moving against Patrick’s neck. “I used to fuck around in hardcore bands when I was younger. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Patrick breathes, and he decides to revisit that later because Pete is moving down his body, kissing a trail down his chest and stomach before nosing at his cock straining against the linen of his underwear and pants.

Patrick doesn’t want to end up on the couch again, as hot as it was. He wants to take his time and really relish this, so he gently pulls Pete up and leads him to the bedroom. They make quick work of the rest of their clothes and Pete wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck, bringing their bodies close together as they kiss, until they’re falling onto the bed and Pete is lying on his back underneath him.

Pete spreads his legs wide and arches his back, inviting Patrick in. Patrick knows this is rare, what Pete is giving him, and he wants to make sure Pete knows that it’s more than just a casual fling to him — that he wants to know Pete like this, but he wants to know him outside of this as well. 

“I want to make you feel good,” he says as he drapes himself over Pete. He grinds his cock against Pete’s in one fluid motion and watches Pete’s eyes flutter in response. Pete wraps his legs around Patrick’s waist and cants his hips, moaning softly.

Patrick moves down, and Pete gasps as Patrick takes his dick into his mouth, sucking him in and working his tongue over his dick. “Fuck,” Pete breathes, “you’re making me feel  _ so _ good, baby.”

Patrick sits up and reaches over Pete to grab lube and a condom from his bedside table, and Pete takes the opportunity to lean up on his elbows and place a string of wet kisses along Patrick’s side. Then he reaches down and strokes Patrick’s cock with one hand, cupping his balls with the other, and — “Oh,” breathes Patrick.

Patrick sets the lube and condom on the bed and then steadies himself with his arms on either side of Pete’s head, his mouth close to Pete’s, taking hitching breaths as Pete continues to stroke him. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” Pete whispers.

Patrick doesn’t know that, but Pete makes him feel like it could be true, so he responds by kissing him, slowly and deeply, trembling in Pete’s touch.

And it’s almost too much. Patrick has wanted this so much for so long, he’s worried he won’t last, so he reaches down and takes Pete’s hands, one by one, and places them on the pillow above Pete’s head. He holds them there as they kiss, feeling Pete’s chest heaving below him as he arches up. Then, slowly, Patrick moves his hands down Pete’s arms, brushes his fingertips down Pete’s sides, and moves his mouth back to Pete’s dick, continuing where he left off before Pete started stroking him. 

Patrick pops open the lube and pours it over his fingers, traces Pete’s entrance with his index finger, and elicits a deep, shuddering breath from him when he pushes it in. He looks up to watch Pete’s chest heaving, drinks in the sounds of him panting as he pushes in more fingers and nudges his prostate.

He fingers and sucks him until Pete looks down at him and grasps his hair, tugs softly and gasps, “Patrick — want your dick — please.” Only then does Patrick stop, sheathing himself with the condom before gripping his own cock to line it up at Pete’s hole. He moves closer to Pete, kissing his neck wetly as he pushes in, reveling in the deep rumble of Pete’s groans that catch in his chest as he breathes heavily.

Patrick wants to savor this, but once he’s fully enveloped in Pete’s body, his mind shuts off and his vision sparks and he just wants to fuck him, hard and fast and completely. He thrusts into him, drawing out a beautiful throaty moan. 

Patrick loses himself moving inside of Pete, breathless and intoxicated with pleasure. He looks down at Pete’s cock jutting up between their stomachs, hard and leaking precome, and he gets a hand on it, stroking Pete as he thrusts. 

He anchors one hand on the bed and lifts Pete’s leg with the other to get a better angle, slamming into Pete’s prostate with every thrust, watching Pete tremble beneath him, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Patrick leans down and kisses him, and Pete moans into his mouth.

Pete’s so responsive, moving and quivering and making so much noise, that it drives Patrick to the edge. When he comes, his whole body convulses. He stays inside of Pete, moving with him, almost convinced he could keep going just from the noises Pete is making, but Pete reaches down between them and strokes himself to completion.

Patrick pulls out and disposes of the condom, and when he climbs back into bed, Pete melts against him. They lie there wrapped up in each other for a while, trading soft kisses and listening to each other breathe.

Patrick is almost asleep when he says, in a soporific haze, “I dreamed you, you know.”

Pete blinks at him and laughs softly. “That's a hell of a line.” 

“No, I really did,” Patrick says sleepily. “I kept seeing you everywhere, or a version of you — a younger version of you.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m too old for you?”

“Oh, my god, forget it,” Patrick huffs, and Pete is chuckling.

After a moment, Pete asks, “Do you still see that version of me?” 

Patrick pulls Pete closer and kisses his temple. “No. I only see you.”

* * *

When Patrick wakes up in the morning, he reaches over, and his hand slides along the bare mattress, the warmth of a body next to him replaced with cold emptiness. His heart drops, and he doesn’t think he mentally prepared himself enough for the possibility of this happening again.

Then he sits up and inhales, and his senses are attacked by the sight of Pete’s shoes on the floor, the popping sounds of grease sizzling, and the combined aromas of bacon and coffee. He gets up and pulls on pajama pants and a t-shirt, and he walks to the kitchen, hair ruffled and bleary-eyed.

“Hey!” says Pete, looking way too cheery for it to be so early. He’s dressed in nothing but his scrub pants, and he’s a tattooed golden vision. “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of making breakfast.”

“No,” says Patrick. “Not at all.” Patrick sidles up to Pete’s back and wraps his arms around his waist. Pete leans into the embrace, and Patrick kisses his neck.

When Pete is done cooking and has made a thorough mess of Patrick’s kitchen, they sit down together, and Patrick can’t stop touching him. He runs his fingers over Pete’s arm and nudges his ankle with his toes. Pete is real and solid and right here next to him. They’re just two people who are a little bit lost, maybe no more or less than anyone else, but together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stigma surrounding addicts has been on my mind lately, so I tried to explore that a bit through Patrick in this fic. I did my best to research everything as thoroughly as possible, and I can only hope that I've approached the subject with enough care.
> 
> Andy's Neil Peart air drumming video is based on Caleb Joseph, catcher for the Toronto Blue Jays, who really did have a somewhat-viral video of himself drumming to Neil Peart.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://openendeddoor.tumblr.com/). Feel free to reach out with any questions/concerns/hellos.


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